


but baby it's cold outside

by aroundofgwent



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Lazy Mornings, Post-Game(s), twsecretsanta18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 15:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroundofgwent/pseuds/aroundofgwent
Summary: A slow and lazy morning in Kovir.





	but baby it's cold outside

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!! ♥ This fic was written for the Witcher Secret Santa event as a gift for @levowgt. I hope you enjoy it and have a wonderful Christmas and New Year! :)
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr [here.](http://aroundofgwent.tumblr.com/post/181416553046/happy-holidays-levowgt-i-was-your-secret)

Mornings like this are rare and he’s learned to treasure them.

Usually Triss is up and about before the first rosy rays of sun glide over Kovir’s snowy peaks, working on whatever earth-shattering task the King has for her or busying herself around the house. Mending a shirt or a dress, brewing potions, organizing and reorganizing whole bookshelves, baking pies and cakes and cookies, but never wasting a moment, not one second. As if there were simply not enough time left in the world for her to do everything she plans to do.

Sometimes Geralt wonders if that’s it: if Triss feels as if they’re living on borrowed time and should she give herself a moment of respite everything would fall apart. He certainly does feel so at times-- and, indeed, what a silly thing to feel. The years they’ve spent together in Kovir have been nothing but peace and quiet, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine a different life now.

But here she is, sleeping peacefully with her red curls-- red like fire, like rubies, like strawberries and wine-- spread out over the pillow and her freckled shoulders, the entire room overflowing with light and such mellowing warmth that one could easily forget about the biting cold raging outside. And here he is, smile soft and eyelids still heavy with sleep, propped on an elbow and watching her, taking in the image of her being all soft and content and safe, knowing it will be but a few short moments before she begins to stir.

And surely enough, it starts with a deep breath followed by a sigh. She opens her eyes, smiles when seeing him, closes them back. Hers is a bright and infectious smile, face all crinkled up with mirth, and he loves it so much. He loves _her_ so much. It makes something warm and terrible tremble in his chest like it’s the first time he acknowledges it, with a giddy and tentative curiosity, the sort that is characteristic to love-struck youth. Perhaps that’s what he is at the end of the day: a century-old lovesick fool.

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt whispers, a half-breathless murmur of amazement more than a proper morning greeting.

Triss hums a wordless answer and begins to stretch her arms above her head, lifting herself off the bed slightly as she does so. “Good morning to you, too,” she says, and her voice quivers slightly with the grogginess of sleep. One of her hands finds its way in Geralt’s white hair and gently slides down to his face, resting above the fresh lick of scarlet slithering in a jagged diagonal across his cheek. She traces the scar’s contour with her thumb, and says, “It’s almost healed already.”

“Mhm. Thanks to your spell. They never teach witchers anything remotely as useful.”

“And with good reason, too. You’d all accidentally grow yourselves a second pair of arms.”

“What’s so bad about that?” he asks with an accent of feigned reproach. “I could hold you twice as tight.”

As if to prove his point, Geralt reaches over and pulls her closer, both arms wrapped around her. She laughs heartily, and the sound of it is a soothing touch laid upon his soul. He kisses her, then. A sweet and tender thing dragging on until they’re nearly out of breath, sunk in the bed’s smooth blankets and pillows. In time, they start drifting back to sleep. Their slow and steady breaths, the half-burnt logs crackling in the fireplace at the end of the bed, and the muffled blizzard slapping against the arched windows are the only sounds in the bedroom. Washing over them both is a sensation of understated delight, tender and quiet like honey-sweetened tea on a breezy spring afternoon.

“Hold on,” Triss says suddenly with a faint accusatory tone. She pulls back from the embrace and squints at Geralt. “How late is it?”

He shrugs. “Not late enough that we need to leave the bed.”

Frowning, she makes as if to get up, but her ever-so naughty witcher stops her. He squeezes her shoulder with gentle care, and then his hand travels down her back, tracing the curve of her spine with the back of his fingers. His skin is far from soft or unblemished, but she’s grown accustomed to his touch by now-- even confessed to preferring it this way.

“Stay,” he says, a low and breathy plea of profound and eager hopefulness. “Stay with me.”

After a first moment of reluctance spent biting her bottom lip, Triss relents, leaning into his touch. “There’s a new apprentice at the Court. I was supposed to show them around today, but… I suppose it can wait.”

“Tell the King it was too cold for you to come in today.”

She chuckles shortly at his suggestion. “I’m not walking to the palace, silly. I could always teleport.”

“Hm. Tell him you accidentally teleported on a faraway sunny beach?” Geralt offers, waving his hand in a broad gesture.

“And what a good impression would that make,” she says, but then looks over her shoulder, a small mischievous smile growing and lighting up her face. “Actually-- it might not be such a bad idea.”

“The faraway sunny beach?”

“Mmm. We never did go on a proper honeymoon.”

Geralt smiles and opens his arms in an invitation for her to settle on his chest. “True,” he says, and kisses the top of her head. “Minus the teleporting part.”

She looks up, shooting him an incredulous glance. “Would you rather have us take Roach across the entire Continent, then?”

A low chuckle leaves his throat, and Triss can feel it reverberating in his chest against her open palm.

“Why not? She deserves a holiday too. I get to spend more time with you away from the Court. We might even meet Ciri on the way there.”

“Oh, the ashen-haired witcheress, you mean?” she asks, a sly edge adding levity to her question. “I thought she was a mere figment of a poet's fancy?”

“Guess we have to find out,” he replies, his fingers tracing idly through her hair.

She goes in for another kiss, smiling against his lips as they share a marvelous and enchanting sense of belonging in the easy way their bodies fit together. It’s still early in the morning, but a kind of ineffable splendor already crowns the day.

“How long will we stay in bed?” Triss asks, placing a warm kiss over his collarbone.

“Until the end of time if I have any say in it.”

“Ah, Geralt. You’re getting more romantic by the day,” Triss teases. “But you’re forgetting something.”

“Am I?” he says, lifting his eyebrows with interest.

“We’ll both get hungry soon enough,” she replies, laughing, and he can’t help but join her.

“A few more minutes, then,” he bargains.

“A few more minutes,” she agrees, closing her eyes, and sighing contentedly as he hugs her closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
